Shiloh
by mefnord
Summary: Written for the Tales of the Slayers ficathon at Nyxie's LJ.


**Shiloh**

The Slayer crouched behind a bush and tried to quiet her mind. If she could only concentrate hard enough, maybe she would be able to contact her Watcher. He had said that it might work. Telepathy. All she needed was some time alone, so that she could focus...

Her grey trousers were chafing against her skin, the worn-out knees of them threatening to tear - just like the bottom had done yesterday. She picked at the thin material that barely managed to cover her skin. Her shirt was in no better state and her boots even featured a hole from where she had just been able to dodge a shot. That must have been the first time that she was happy about them being two sizes to big for her small feet – the bullet had only just grazed her toes, only scratching the skin. The memory still made her heart flutter. It had been more than a close call. It was an uncomfortable reminder that she was just as likely to get hurt as her fellow soldiers. But she couldn't afford to waste her death on a bullet. Angrily, she pushed a lock of brown hair behind her ear, willing it to stay in place for once. She missed her long hair, easily tameable with a strip of leather or lace so that it would never bother her at all while fighting.

She shrank back even further into the shrubbery when she heard some of her fellow soldiers walking by. They had been on the march from Corinth ever since Wednesday morning. Rain, bad roads and the general knowledge of being led into battle had all worked together to make her feel miserable and lost. She just couldn't share the enthusiasm of the boys, couldn't muster up a cheerful cry for the South when she alone knew that the fight against the Union wasn't the only battle waged these days.

She closed her eyes. Only a year back she would have laughed had anyone predicted that one day she would walk with soldiers, fight with soldiers, eat, sleep, live with soldiers - disguised as a boy, her long elegant dresses only memories of silky whispers on her skin, her hair cut, even her name shortened to one syllable, capturing how she felt about herself right now. Shorter, cut off, lonely. Joe.

Only a year ago being a Slayer had only been a remote possibility, a destiny that might come true, but just as likely would not. "Potential", her Watcher had called it. Josephine smiled ruefully as she remembered that her parents had never ever known that the shy, clumsy private teacher from far away England had done so much more than just talk about history, French and the qualities of British breeding horses.

His riding lessons had always led them to secluded areas where they continued as fencing lessons, staking lessons. His history lessons had always contained the history of darker worlds, darker times and of girls, girls shining through the ages, girls that had then been what she was now. And his eternal ramblings about different kinds of British breeding horses at dinner table, an ongoing source of endless teasing from her parents, had by no way continued on into the secluded world of the study. Instead he had told her stories of monsters and demons, of dragons and vampires. Stories that made her skin crawl, only not in the good way like the stories the slaves told her. No, his did it in a bad bad way because deep down she knew that the stories were true. Had always been true.

And then there was her first vampire. On the night that she had first felt the power surging through her. Or maybe that was just her memory playing tricks. Any which way, she

killed a black guy from the neighbouring farm. A vampire. Dusted. Next was a white owner of a sawmill. Beheaded.

She lost count soon enough, doing her job.

A few raindrops made their way through the thick bushes hiding her, leaving their places on the leaves to find places of exposed skin, rolling down her neck, before being soaked up by the rough material of a stolen uniform. Josephine shivered and hugged herself in a meagre defence against the cold. At least the downpour had finally stopped. The night was clear, cool and eerily quiet. Straining to hear anything, she gave up on the idea of contacting her Watcher. Instead of the inner calm that was needed for telepathy she felt the memories pressing in on her, more recent now, memories of the last few months.

War broke out and the dreams started. "Apocalypse", her watcher said and then he had run away with her in tow, had run away to follow the battles, because they knew something that not one of the soldiers, not one of the high and mighty generals knew. This wasn't about the South. This wasn't about the North. It wasn't about America at all.

Somehow, at a point of time that she didn't know yet, at a place that she could just hope to recognize, all hell would break loose and she would have to be there to stuff it back in.

Meanwhile she did what she could to try and keep her belief that this world should be saved at all.

The battles, the killing, the things that humans did to other humans.

The things that demons and vampires did once the sun set on the battlefields.

She felt like she was a hundred years old. Older. The oldest being on the entire earth.

And ever since her Watcher had been wounded and she had to go on alone she felt like she was being crushed bit by bit. Crushed by the responsibilities, by knowledge, crushed by the reality of war.

And ever since she had decided to follow General Albert Johnston's men it had been getting worse and worse.

Half or even more of the men she was marching with had never held a rifle in their lives.

And now they were heading towards the enemy, hoping to stage a surprise attack. She had gleaned bits and pieces of knowledge from sneaking through camp at night, stake always at the ready.

No one really knew she was there anyway, she had been very careful about never staying too long with a group of men at a time, lest her secret should be discovered. One day someone would notice that she wasn't even part of the army, had never been drafted, had never answered to any roll call...

She had been in battles, but a Slayer was sworn to protect human life, not to destroy it and so she found herself guarding soldiers, helping them when in a clinch, no matter if they were wearing blue or grey.

She realized that not even the footfall of the infantry was disturbing the silence anymore.

She decided to sneak out of the bushes and run after them, hoping to find a warm place to sleep tonight. Hoping that the dreams would stay away for tonight...

----------

There had been not enough sleep for the dreams to trouble her. As soon as the sun had set there had been the vampires. Only lurking, the night before the battle, but there they were.

It was always the same – the carnage of war made easy spoils for the vampires. No one missed a soldier after a battle, no one wondered about the many torn throats on the battlefield. It was her job to keep the numbers as small as possible.

She tried not to think about the irony. One soldier saved from a creature of the dark might be killed by a bullet the very next second.

And so she had spent the night circling the camp, patrolling, hunting, trying to catch a few moments of sleep leaning against a tree.

Now, in the hours that were closer to the morning than to night, she could already hear the roar and thunder of cannons firing in the distance.

"They're already at it," a guy next to her marvelled, his eyes shining with excitement. On the shining surface all she could see were tiny mirror images of dead bodies covering the ground. The Slayer was afraid. Sometimes what she saw, what she dreamt, what she felt, sometimes her horrors became true to the world.

She tried not to think about her former life, a life where she would be sleeping right now, a life where she would have nothing to dread but if she had really lost the pretty pink hair band that she had always liked so much.

The forest they were walking through wouldn't have offered any shrubbery to hide behind. The trees stood far apart and the men were able to hold formation easily.

Josephine was there, among them, trying herself to stay in line. All around her she could see young men dressed in grey, their faces grim and solemn. Here and there soldiers had stuck bunches of violets to their caps, a joyful sight of picnics and ball games and innocence. She didn't understand soldiers. Or maybe she didn't understand men. She certainly didn't understand war.

The sun wasn't even up yet.

It was Sunday morning.

At home her family would probably still be sleeping. In the kitchen, the cook would be preparing the fine white bread they had on Sundays.

And she was all alone.

Josephine let herself fall back and started to run.

Run away in a straight line, run away like only a Slayer can run, feet pounding, her breath a steady song of freedom, her heart beating a beat of survival.

Mr. Hayes would be so disappointed in her now. But she was the Slayer and no soldier.

She ran.

-------------

"Hey, boy!"

The voice startled her. Where did it come from? She had thought herself alone. Hanging her head low she kept on walking.

"Soldier! Attention!"

Josephine sighed. There was no way she could be mistaken – the voice was definitely speaking to her.

Looking up, she saw a man on a horse approaching her. He was a sturdy man in his forties, his hair sticking out in two big greying tufts to the right and left of his head, leaving the top bald. A giant grey moustache more than compensated for the lack of hair further up.

Josephine inadvertently smiled. The man looked funny, in a kind way. Like he liked to joke around... he reminded her a little of her father, too. Especially with this stern face that he was making now, it looked like he was only pretending at being angry...

But then Josephine froze. For the first time since running away from her company the thought had occurred to her that she had actually been running away from an army. She swallowed hard.

"Sir?" she tried.

"Ah, finally, boy. So you aren't deaf after all," he said, nodding at her, shifting in his saddle to get a better view of her.

Making her voice as deep as possible, she said "No, Sir." Although it sounded more like a question than the crisp answer of a seasoned soldier she was quite pleased with her efforts. The man at least didn't seem to notice that anything was off.

"What are you doing here soldier, all alone in the woods?"

"I, I...." Before she could find anything to say, she was interrupted by the man.

"I saw you running, soldier. You are fast."

"Sir, I-"but again she couldn't finish whatever she was going to say.

"This neck of the woods is beautiful, soldier, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sir," she whispered. What was he getting at now?

"I think one might get quite lost in these woods, though. It's quite dangerous, really. Especially in the dark, daylight only just approaching," he interrupted himself to turn the nose of his horse into the direction he had come from with a rather rough jerk of the reins. Puffing white steam into the cold air with indignation the horse began to walk slowly. The Slayer understood that she was supposed to be following and hurried to the horse's side, while its rider continued, "Hmm, yes, indeed in these woods, in the dark one might find oneself all alone, having lost ones mates, yes, and then I guess if that happened one might have to run really fast to catch them. What do you think, soldier?"

Josephine blushed deeply.

"Sir, yes, Sir. I'm sorry, I ..."

"Now, boy, don't worry. Nothing to be sorry about. No, no, I think you might be a heavenly gift on a day like this. We're in desperate need of a light footed young fellow like you ..." He looked down at her as if taking the measure of a horse or a gun, his eyes travelling over her features, her body, lingering for a time on her legs.

The Slayer could feel her heart beat faster and faster. What was happening?

"Yes, yes... our courier boy broke his leg when tripping over a stone yesterday and the substitute is lame as my grandmother's old mule. So would you do us the honour? I guess your company might spare us a fellow, don't you think?"

"Oh," she said, relief flooding her. The man on the horse could have probably done things to her right there and then, she didn't know, maybe making her pay so that he would keep quiet. She had seen and heard horrible things. But he was asking her to help him.

"I mean, yes, Sir," she hurried to add, bringing her hand to her head like she had done so often before, imitating the others.

"Hmm," the man chuckled, "you must be one of the, um, less trained soldiers... No matter though, you'll do just fine."

They had arrived at a campsite.

"See this man over there, the one in the middle?"

Josephine nodded, letting her hand fall back to her side. The smell of freshly brewed coffee was in the air, as a few men were eating breakfast at a small campfire. One of them was writing something in a notebook, another one was handing out shares of biscuits. Behind them horses grazed.

"You will run messages between us the whole day, but especially during battle. I trust you know how to dodge in a fight?" he raised his eyebrows at her knowingly.

Bursting into the first heart-felt grin since just about forever she proudly brought her shoe up, showing off the bullet hole in the sole.

The man laughed merrily, creating an eerie sound among the quiet men. "You will do just fine, lad. Now, let me introduce our new messenger to General Johnston over there."

Josephine gaped. General Johnston?

Already with his back to her, the man who had talked to her added, "And I'm Governor Harris."

--------

The sound of the musketry just behind the trees never stopped. Just before sunrise the General and his staff finally mounted and departed for the front. At their side the Slayer ran with them.

--------

As daylight started to fill the woodlands, the smell of coffee waved through the air yet again, filling it with memories of home. Josephine took hold of General Johnston's horse, stroking the warm coat of the magnificent bay. The horse seemed to be born for the task of carrying her master into battle. When he was sitting on her, it looked like he and the horse were one, made for each other.

Now, Fire-eater looked at the Slayer with kind brown eyes as if she too was thinking that the General's love for freshly brewed coffee was oddly out of place among the horrors that both of them would have to see today.

But for now there was another campfire, on the intersection of Corinth road, a campfire used to make coffee and that was importantly called "head-quarters" by the men around her. Maybe they were right. Maybe the knowledge that the General would go to the front and lead the attack made a simple campfire into a head-quarter. And maybe it could turn the ranks of untrained youngsters that were massed up and down the road into an army.

Josephine was interrupted in her thoughts as she saw the General waving for his horse, turning to his people and saying in a cheerful voice, "Tonight we will water our horses in the Tennessee River." He mounted Fire-eater, his eyes sparkling with the fighting spirit that Josephine had seen so often in her fellow soldiers, a spirit that didn't help them at all when they were lying in the trenches, hit by a bullet, impaled by a bayonet, choked by a pair of hands in a blue uniform. But Sir General Sidney Johnston did not heed such thoughts as he sat upon his horse.

"Isn't he the ideal embodiment of the fiery essence of war? I'd follow him to hell."

Irritated, she turned to the poetic fool who had just said that. Fiery essence of war. Would they never learn? The speaker could be dead tonight and here he was, admiring the one man who was going to cheer him on. The soldier was young, her age, fifteen, sixteen maybe. His eyes shone with excitement and innocence and true admiration for the General on the horse. Combing with his left hand through bright yellow hair he looked at her to say something. An eager puppy about to be slaughtered. Josephine looked at him until he got uneasy, and so she hurried to say, "Yes, he looks like a real gentleman on that horse."

It wasn't enough, though. The boy turned away and left her alone at the fire. She closed her eyes for a second, then turned her face to the dazzling sun in the sky. The day was still young and yet the sun produced a fine film of sweat on her forehead already. It would be hot like hell itself on this April day.

The Slayer started to run after the General, waiting for the first message to carry.

Behind her, thousands of Confederates followed their leader into battle.

---------

Apocalypse.

Apocalypse.

The Slayer stood on top of the small ridge next to the simple wooden structure that was supposed to function as a church. Maybe, on any other Sunday, a congregation would have met here, would have met to kneel down in prayer and to praise the Lord. Maybe, on any other Sunday than today...

But today, now, while the sun set on the world, one girl stood silent and alone and the only word left to her was this.

Apocalypse.

It used to hold meaning once. It used to tell her about the end of the world, about demons rising in the dark, about forces and prophecies and her duty to stop them all. To stop the end of the world. It used to tell her of her abilities, of her chance at heroism. It used to whisper words of a world saved and safe. Of the sun shining and children playing. Of victory and growing old.

But after today the word was made anew.

It meant following a man. Following him, taking his orders and growing to admire him within the span of a few hours. It was to see him, to hear him, to recognize him as another warrior. Always in the thick of the fight, always leading, always spurring on his men. Unbelievably stupid in the face of certain death, of brutal murder and yet unbelievably brave.

It was feeling so much older than him and yet like she had never known anything at all.

It was to see him die, die from a wound that couldn't be found, it was that small, to see him die because he had wanted to fight more than to live. And so he lay, dying from a wound that should've never killed him, had he not sent his personal doctor to aide the wounded prisoners, had he not hid his bleeding leg against the flank of Fire-eater.

It was to be part of the spreading feeling of desolation among his men.

She shuddered. In a way, remembering what happened after Johnston had died underneath his oak was even worse than his death.

Kind, brave Governor Harris. Searching for the wound, tearing the General's clothes, frantically, panicked. And in the end there was nothing else to do but to cradle the man in his arms, rocking him like a child while tears flowed freely into his moustache.

And Josephine knew that the army couldn't be without a leader and she knew that she was going to be the one who was going to tell Beauregard that he was the now in charge. She was the courier.

But before she could even say something, Governor Harris raised his head and looked at her, looked into her face for a long time and what he saw there she could not fathom, but he pointed at the blue shadow of the enemy soldiers across the field and he said, "Beauregard is behind the enemy line, child. You're never going to make it."

And then the Governor got up and whistled softly to Fire-eater, who obediently left the side of her master. And the Slayer stood helplessly as he dashed away before she could start to argue, before she had the chance to tell him that she was stronger and faster than anyone else.

She wasn't fast enough to run after a horse in full gallop.

As his figure grew smaller, she imagined she could see him clearly, a tiny grey dot against a blue background. And she imagined that she could hear three shots, lonely and dull, despite the noises of war surrounding her.

Apocalypse was a man who died doing her job.

After today apocalypse meant a peach orchard in full bloom. A peach orchard on a fine April morning. A peach orchard whose trees were incessantly torn by the bullets until the blossoms were cut from the trees so thick and so vast that they covered the fallen soldiers like gentle snow on a winter's day. While the flowers soaked up the blood of the boys they covered, the trees were left behind naked and bare, their trunks weeping resin from the bullet wounds. The end of the world was a peach orchard.

It was a shallow pond, a pond that was a welcome sight for soldiers on a hot, sweltering day. Here they met, the greys and the blues, here boyish greetings were exchanged between enemies, united in their suffering they spent awkward moments as they bled, grey and blue alike. Here broken eyes saw no more as the surface of the pond, blinking gaily with reflected sunlight, slowly turned into a deep dark brownish red.

The end of the world was a shallow pond.

It was the field she could see from the ridge, covered so thickly with bodies that she couldn't make out the ground anymore.

It was the black birds settling in to feed.

Apocalypse was today. And the only monsters were men.

Josephine shuddered. Along her spine a chill made its way up to the hair in her neck, freezing her heart like an afterthought. The sun had found its way across the sky, disappearing in a weeping red behind the tree tops. Soon the birds would be joined by other vultures.

"This church is called Shiloh, did you know that?"

She focused upon the unmoving bodies of the soldiers on the battlefield, noticing how they were slowly turned into undistinguishable dark lumps by the encroaching darkness. Without turning around she tilted her head a little to indicate that she was listening to the silky voice behind her.

"So you know what Shiloh means, my beautiful girl?"

Of course he would know that she was a girl. They had always been able to see past her ridiculous disguise. As her hand slowly sought out the wooden stake in her pocket she gave only the slightest shake of her head, encouraging him to tell her.

"It's Hebrew, you know." His voice was nearly singing. "I happen to know a little Hebrew," he said.

She had a good hold on the stake now and her grip on it tightened when she felt him taking another step towards her, coming so near that she could feel the air moving when he spoke the next time.

"It's quite ironic when you start to think about it. That the church should be named Shiloh. Because," with that he placed his hands on her hips, "because, my pretty, it means _Place of Peace."_

The moment he said it she knew it was true. He wasn't lying.

Before her eyes the dark sky seemed to swirl, a maelstrom of black and grey and blue and red, red streaks everywhere, red, red, red, red taking over her vision as in her ears a storm of voices started to scream.

"Place of Peace," every single soldier lying in his own blood screamed at her. "Place of Peace."

Until she could take it no more. Her grip on the stake loosened. Every single muscle in her body seemed to comply with her decision as she fell against the vampire, who caught her in his strong arms.

She let her head fall onto her shoulder and closed her eyes.

-End-

Footnote:

Although I tried to keep the story as close as possible to the reality that was the battle of Shiloh, fought on Sunday April 6, 1862, I took the liberty to kill poor Governor Harris in my story. Whereas General Johnston did die from a minor wound during the fighting, Harris delivered the message of his death to Beauregard quite safely and lived on until old age.


End file.
